


Shape Of You

by phoenixjean, voguethranduil



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, X-Men (Movieverse)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Angst, Artists, F/M, Friends With Benefits, Hurt/Comfort, Smut, there are only really mentions of alex but close enough
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-30
Updated: 2017-05-30
Packaged: 2018-11-06 16:13:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11039712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phoenixjean/pseuds/phoenixjean, https://archiveofourown.org/users/voguethranduil/pseuds/voguethranduil
Summary: You know Warren better than you think anyone else does; you know about his art and his habits and a bit about his dad, and you know that he’s reckless and self-destructive and that he doesn’t do relationships.Which wasn’t a problem until now.





	Shape Of You

**Author's Note:**

> holy fuck. alex and i have been working on this since november and we finally finished. our blood and sweat and tears have gone into this fic so we hope you all enjoy!
> 
> follow our tumblrs!!
> 
> @kurtwxgners  
> @alexsunmners

There’s no denying that Warren Worthington III is _incredibly_ attractive. Girls and boys alike always seem so naturally drawn to him, and you wonder if the universe had specifically put him in your life to make you angry. Warren may be the Adonis of your university, but there’s always a catch with boys like him: his ego, which may as well be bigger than the sun, and you’re almost positive that he knows he’s got everyone in your art class wrapped around his finger. You’re first hand witness to that, for an hour and a half three times a week. Everytime he cuddles up to some wide-eyed girl and suggests that they swing by his place that evening, you roll your eyes so hard you’re almost surprised they don’t fall out of your head. He tells them he’d love to have them model for him sometime. You’re pretty sure that’s what he tells every girl he wants to fuck. It makes you cringe. So, that’s why you usually kept to yourself in that class - that is, until Warren _actually_ acknowledges your presence. 

The project you’re working on, is simple, so simple that even someone who was just taking this as an elective, like yourself, could pass with flying colors without giving it too much attention. It’s still life week and you’re meant to be drawing the fruit bowl in the middle of the room, which feels like a cliche or something, but who are you to argue with the teacher’s assignment. You had put your headphones in a while ago, before Warren had started making his usual rounds of the class, to project his ‘artistic advice’ onto other students who didn't know any better, who were probably only taking his incredibly condescending advice at all in the hopes of gaining his affection. Or an invitation home. You’re pretty sure Warren has fucked half the class already and for reasons that escape you, the rest of the class hasn’t figured out that they should probably just steer clear of him. So when you see out of the corner of your eye a stool being pulled up next to you, a sigh leaves your mouth. You pull out a headphone, and look at Warren, who’s oh-so-carefully examining your sketch through his probably fake and definitely expensive glasses.

“Y’know, if I were you, I’d shade in this area,” He suggests, finger pointing to the bottom of the bowl. “It’d really make the drawing more realistic, and it’d give it more depth.”

“Excuse me?” You say with offense, looking down at your paper.

“M’just saying, it’d look good if you shaded there.” Warren repeats, leaning his chin against his hand.

“Look, just because you’re some ‘up and coming’ artist, doesn’t mean I’m going to do what _you_ thinks good,” You tell him, using air quotes around your words to make your point. “Besides, the prof is always telling us to develop our own art style.”

“Ouch!” Warren petulantly says, clutching his chest. “Didn’t expect you to be so _sassy_ , princess.”

“Don’t call me that.” You say with a roll of your eyes, ripping your completed sketch out of your book. You get up to go turn in your sketch, Warren quickly following behind you.

“Look, we haven’t really talked before, I was just trying to break the ice!” He says petulantly, though the effect is ruined by the smirk tugging at his lips. You swear that he was born with that permanent smirk on his face. The teacher points to the pile of sketches, and you place it there. “You’re always so observant, and I just want to get to know you.”

“Way to break the ice,” you mutter under your breath, moving back to the table where your things are.

“Why don’t you swing by my place tonight, I’m having a little get together with some other art majors,” Warren suggests casually, as you gather your things. “I’ve got lots of good wine, and you could check out my portfolio.”

“Sorry Warren, I’d _love_ to be around people I have nothing in common with, but I've got plans tonight,” you retort, hitching your bag a little higher on your shoulder. 

“And that's what? Netflix bingeing until three a.m.?” Warren calls after you, watching as you make your way towards the door. You just turn and give him a blatantly fake smile, flipping him off to the amusement of the students watching. He just sighs with a smile, his hands moving to his hips. He'd always see you during class, and he always wondered how a girl like _you_ was always so quiet, and observant during class. And to be quite honest, he was getting pretty tired of the usual girls he flirted with during this class; so he took an interest in you, initiating the conversation with you today. You looked like you could be _fun_ , and the way you had snapped back at him only confirmed the idea.So as the next few weeks unfold, he’s not too sure why his usual lines and tricks aren't working on you, like they had on everyone else. And you're pretty sure you might wring his neck, if he asks you to come to one more of his art shows; or to his loft for “modeling purposes.” 

Warren finds out that when you get angry or annoyed, you look _undeniably_ attractive. He also finds it attractive, that when you think no one is paying attention, how you'll chew at the tip of your pencil out of concentration. And, when you're in the dark room together, you look otherworldly under the red lights. He hasn't felt the need to pursue someone like this in a long time. No matter how much you two may argue and banter, there's no denying the underlying chemistry between the two of you. Between hook-ups and Uni, he’d kind of forgotten what it was like to “chase” someone he’s taken an interest in, so when a partner project comes along that requires a human canvas, he’s quick to sign your name along with his. 

“I'm sorry, but when did I agree to be your partner?” You question him, seeing your name scrawled out in his handwriting. 

“Oh c’mon princess! I'm a good partner,” he winks, as you roll your eyes at him. “We could get a head start on it tonight. I got plenty of ideas, and not to mention, some good wine.” You can't deny that he's the best artist in the whole damn class, and you've heard from others that he actually _does_ have the best wine, and he's a pretty decent host. You're positive he’s also got way better art supplies, which would no doubt increase your chances of getting a nice grade. 

“Alright, alright,” You give in, rummaging around your bag for a spare pen and paper. As you scrawl your number on the paper, Warren’s smirk on his face grows. “Text me your address, Worthington. I'll see you at 7.”

And like you had planned earlier, that’s how you end up in Warren’s loft; watching him pour you a glass of wine. (You’d be lying if you said you weren't at least a _little_ nervous. Worthington may be an asshole, but he's also _definitely_ easy on the eyes.) Kings of Leon is playing softly in the background, as he hands you the glass of wine. 

“Well, I’d never thought I’d see the day,” Warren says, leaning back against the counter, as he takes a sip of his wine. 

“And what’s that?” You ask, even though you're pretty much certain of what he's going to say.

“The day I got _you_ to come to my place. It's a miracle, it really is, princess!”

“God, you're an asshole,” you reply with a laugh, bringing your glass to your lips. 

“Yeah, but you like it. Don't lie to yourself,” he teases, causing you to roll your eyes. 

“Oh, you're right! I _love_ when you tell me everything I draw is fucked up,” you quip, as he shakes his head with a grin. 

“In the art world, that's called _constructive criticism_ ,” he says defensively, as you just laugh. 

“Well in the real world, that's called being a _douchebag."_

Warren grabs the bottle of wine, and circles around the island, cueing you to follow him to the living room. He plops down on the couch, patting the space next to him. You sit, crossing your legs as he rests his arm on the back of the couch. “Alright, down to official Uni business!” He exclaims, reaching to grab his notebook off the coffee table. “I have some experience with using human canvases, so I've got a few ideas.”

“Human canvases, huh?” You comment, swirling your glass. “That human canvas wouldn't happen to go by Emma, from our class, would it? I've heard some pretty good stories from her about you, y’know.”

“ _Ha, ha,”_ Warren says, rolling your eyes petulantly and making you chuckle. “Anyways, as I was saying, you know Tumblr, right?” You nod. Of fucking course he’d have a Tumblr. “Well, you've seen those pictures of paintings on people's backs and shit, right?” Warren asks, his brow raising. It takes you a second to think of what he's describing, before it clicks in your brain. 

“Oh, Worthington, you've gotta get a couple drinks in me before I do _that.”_

“I knew you'd say that.” Warren laughs lightly, moving to grab the bottle of wine. “It's a good thing I got this, and more options.”

As the wine begins to flow, so do the ideas. None of them really sound that appealing or creative, and you're pretty sure you're closing in on a decision. Maybe it’s the alcohol that’s affecting your decision making, but you’re almost certain that it’s the way Warren is so effortlessly making you feel at ease; like he’s taking down the front to an act he puts on all day. 

“Fuck it,” you say, interrupting Warren’s list of ideas. “Let’s do the back painting.”

He actually looks slightly taken aback for a moment, his plump lips parting for a moment as if he’s going to say something; but closing them, lips curling into a small smile. He closes his notebook and stands, your gaze following him. “Alright princess,” He says, offering his hand to you. “Let’s get started.”

Warren rearranges his furniture in the living room, pushing the couches out of the way so he would be able to paint. He rummages through his closet for some old sheets, spreading the already paint stained sheets on the floor. You hurriedly finish your wine and pour yourself another large glass as you watch Warren set things up, because it’s hitting you that you’re going to be pretty much half naked on his floor, with his hands all over you. You watch him as he sets up a couple lights around the area, arranging them to his liking. He leans down to the couch, and grabs a pillow, chucking it to you with a playful smile.

“For your comfort,” He says simply, running a hand through his curls. “I’m-I’m just gonna go into the other room. Take… take your shirt off, and get comfy. There’s an extra sheet over there, in case I get paint on your skirt, or whatever.” Warren quickly excuses himself, much to your amusement. You’re actually quite flustered, if you’re being honest; you expected him to make some suggestive comments throughout the night, but he's been a gentleman so far. 

Taking one last sip of your wine for some courage, you slip off your shirt, and place it over the back of the armchair. You unclasp your bra, and put it on the armchair as well. You wrap your arms around your chest for a moment, feeling the vulnerability set it. _You can do this,_ you convince yourself, as you settle yourself on the floor. _You're gonna be fine, and you're going to get a really fucking good grade._

“Worthington!” You call out, raising your head to look over your shoulder. “I'm ready!”

Warren comes into the living room, his hands full of his supplies. It takes everything he's got, not to drop them. He _really_ thought he wouldn't be affected by you being half naked on his floor, but he was _so_ wrong. With your hair splayed over your shoulders and sheet over your legs, you look like you had just fallen asleep after…. after some pretty suggestive activities. And it doesn't help that you look like _this,_ on _his_ floor. He just clears his throats and tries to get his shit together as he makes his way over to you, setting down his supplies beside your body. 

“Uh, do- do you want me to play some music, or something? Do you want any more wine?” He asks, trying to maintain his professionalism. 

“Yes to the music, no to the wine, unfortunately.” You reply, earning a laugh from Warren. “I'm pretty sure I'm past tipsy.”

“Aw, that's cute,” Warren teases, as he puts on some soft music. Of fucking course he listens to _Tame Impala._ “You're a lightweight.”

“Shut up,” you retort, as he makes his way back to you. “Not all of us binge drink as often as you do.”

Warren chuckles, and gets to his knees, pondering the best way to go about painting. If he wants to get precise strokes and details, he's going to have to be close to your back. “Is it… is it alright if I sit on your thighs?” He asks carefully, preparing for some snarky comment. You're quiet for a moment, and even though he can't see your face, he's _sure_ that you're cringing. But he's proven wrong, as you just burst into a fit of giggles. 

“Yeah, sure, that's- go for it,” You reply, between giggles. “Just don't crush me.”

“Was that supposed to be an insult?” Warren quips, moving to straddle the upper part of your thighs. 

“Definitely not. You're like, way more ripped than an artist should be.”

“Wait, what?” Warren asks, not fully processing your statement. 

“Uh, nothing, just- just sit already, Worthington!"

Warren feels his cheeks heat up, and shakes his head with a fond smile. When he settles on your thighs, that’s when he realizes how close he actually is with you. Christ, his dick is pretty much pressed against your ass at this angle. _NO,_ Warren thinks to himself, _Do not think of her ass. Focus on the painting. Focus on the painting._

Taking one last deep breath, he picks up a brush to start. He dips the paintbrush into a deep purple, moving his hand to the middle of your back. You instantly shiver when the paint comes in contact with your spine, eliciting a small squeak of surprise from you. Warren just laughs softly, and asks you if you’re good. When you just nod against the pillows, he starts again. As he works, you’re pretty sure you’ve entered Heaven. His free hand is soft and inviting as it occasionally touches your skin, and the strokes from his brush are soothing against your skin. When Warren leans down to examine the details of his work, you feel his breath against you - and you’d be lying if you said that didn’t make your heart flutter. The music in the background fades as you slip in and out of consciousness, the mixture of wine and the paint making you sleepy. You’re not sure how much time has passed, because before you know it, you feel Warren’s weight leave you; making you frown.

“Is it done?” You ask, voice laced with grogginess, as you turn to look at him over your shoulder. His hair is slightly disarrayed, and his white shirt has splatters of blue and purple on it.

“Yeah, it is,”  Warren starts, searching through some bags to dig out his camera. “Do you mind if I take a few for class?”

“No, not at all.” You answer, turning to rest your face back on your arms. 

As Warren adjusts the lighting once more for the photographs, he realizes just how _dangerously_ attractive you look. With your hair sprawled out and your body half covered with a sheet, you look like you’ve just fallen asleep in _his_ bed. It’s almost a little too much for him, as you yawn. He shakes himself from his thoughts, before he _finally_ starts to snap some pictures. With every click, he can feel himself stray to thoughts of how you’d look underneath him, and how your lips would feel against his. He won’t admit it, but he definitely snaps more than he should, for nights when he can’t shake off the feeling of how your ass felt underneath him. When he sets down his camera, he takes note of how you’re more or less fast asleep on his floor. He kneels down to your face, where he gently places a hand on your shoulder.

“You want to take a shower?” He asks softly, as you rouse from your lax state. “Or I could wipe you off, if you don’t want to move.”

“You do it,” You mumble back, as if it was the obvious answer. “Don’t wanna move.”

Warren nods in understanding, moving to the kitchen to grab some washcloths. He runs them under hot water, and rings them out, before going back to you. He takes his place on your thighs once more, pressing the warm washcloth on your back. His free hand finds its home on your side, balancing himself as he wipes carefully down your spine. Your reaction is entirely unanticipated and it sets him reeling.

The groan you release is muffled, but not muffled enough for Warren not to hear it. It sounds akin to a pleasured groan; one that is produced when a person is in the midst of a climax and it shakes him to the core. He freezes, and tenses above you. It’s only then, you realize, that Warren _fucking_ Worthington III is hard against your ass.

You’re suddenly not so tired anymore.

It takes Warren a moment for him to collect himself, before he starts wiping off your back again. You do your best to stifle your groans, but you’re _sure_ he’s doing it with more pressure deliberately. It’s not long before Warren is done wiping off the paint, and you’re about to thank him, before the washcloth is replaced with his hands. The moment his thumbs dig into your shoulders, you know, that you’re completely and utterly _fucked._

You’re sure he knows what he’s doing to you, as his deft hands travel around your back, his thumbs digging in all the right places. Warren bites his lower lip, as you’re underneath him, a wicked thought crossing his mind. His hands drift to the base of your spine, before he lowers himself so that his lips are level with your ear. You physically shiver when you feel his lower lip brush against the shell of your ear, his fingers dancing across your skin.

“You okay, princess?” Warren’s voice is three octaves lower than usual, and the slight lust in his tone is enough to make a heat of wave surge through your body. You can’t physically make the effort to actually form any coherent words, so you just opt to make a _‘mmh’_ that sounds pathetically desperate to your ears. There’s a long, tense pause, as he takes in your answer. You’re about to say something, say something to convince you both that this is maybe a bad idea, but your words are caught in your throat as he places a kiss to the nape of your neck, and he doesn’t stop there. His lips place hot, wet kisses down your back, and you’re pretty sure you’re going to lose it right then when his tongue traces the dip of your spine. His calloused hands travel down your sides, pulling down the dirtied sheet to reveal your skirt, that in the process of painting, has been hiked up a little. The way you’re fisting the pillow underneath you, is enough permission for Warren to continue.

He pushes up your skirt, and just lets out a dark laugh at what he’s met with. Your lace cheeksters make your ass look _fantastic,_ and he loves the way they look against your skin. His large hands suddenly grasp the swell of your ass, causing a surprised moan to fall from your lips. “ _Goddamn_ , princess,” he groans, voice gravelly. You barely even process the feel of his lips suddenly sucking hard at one of your cheeks, his thumb moving to stroke you outside of your panties. You let out an absolutely wrecked moan as he marks up your ass, his thumb rubbing at your clit in uneven circles over your underwear. 

He grows quickly impatient with that, and opts to scoot forward slightly. Your back arches the second he starts mouthing at your clothed heat, a yelp escaping your lips. Warren hums in approval at your reaction, and that's when he takes the cue to rid you of your underwear all together. His hands make quick work of the underwear, throwing them behind his shoulder, long forgotten. Your breath is ragged and short as his rough hands grasp your ass, and you all but scream his name when his tongue presses against your cunt. 

The angle’s a little awkward, but you don't really care: because all you can focus on is the feel of his tongue lapping at you like a starved man, and the feel of his hands spreading your ass apart. Warren alternates between deep, longing licks and short, teasing ones. Your knuckles are turning white from how hard you’re grasping the pillow underneath you, and you nearly lurch forward when you feel his tongue against your ass. 

“ _Fuck!”_ You curse loudly. Your voice cracks from how dry it is, but you don’t care. Warren fucking _laughs_ at your reaction, because he knew you were close, too.

He keeps up the teasing, deep licks for a couple more minutes. He wants to see how far he can push you, until you’re _begging_ for the release you need. He’s always been a tease. It takes Warren by surprise when he feels your hand place itself in his curls, fingers digging into the roots of his hair. You impatiently press him harder into you, and he seems to get the point. His tongue immediately moves down to your clit, where he focuses in his attention. With every movement of his chin, you could feel the day old stubble rub against the apex of your thighs, only increasing the pleasure. The second Warren’s fingers nudge at your clit, you gasp out his name; finally getting that release you’ve _needed_ for the past ten minutes.

Your eyes shut tightly as you cum, your grip on Warren’s hair tightening as he rides out your orgasm. His fingers are still rubbing at your clit, making your body pulse and writhe underneath him. It’s not long before he finally detaches himself from your aching cunt, and hastily making his way up towards your lips.

He leaves a couple more kisses on your ass and spine, before you’re resting your weight on your elbows to meet him halfway. You’re pretty sure a first kiss has never been so utterly filthy before. His tongue is immediately in your mouth, and you’re kicking yourself for being turned on by the taste of yourself on his lips. At the taste of yourself, you can’t help the needy little moan that leaves your mouth, which causes Warren to actually fucking _growl._

It’s a blur, as Warren’s hands plant themselves on your hips, practically manhandling you to your back. He leans back on his heels to pull off his shirt quickly, returning to give you a bruising kiss. It’s a mess of tongue and teeth, as his hands greedily knead at your breasts. Your hands shove themselves between your bodies, fingers trying to unbuckle his belt as quickly as you can possibly manage. The second his belt falls to the floor with a ‘clink,’ Warren detaches his mouth from yours once more. He kicks off his jeans and briefs hurriedly, wasting no time to come back to you. 

When he comes back down to you, you can’t really help yourself, as your hand slides down once more to grip his length. The second you stroke him, Warren gasps heavily into your mouth; his eyes screwing shut. His tongue darts out to wet his lower lip, as you stroke his cock. You let out a small noise of surprise when he regains his focus, his hand moving to hold the base of your throat. 

His hips grind forward, the length of him sliding across your wanting entrance. When you whine in response, Warren just chuckles darkly, ducking down to brush his lips against yours.

“You want me to fuck you, baby?” He whispers, the hold on your throat tightening. “Want me to fuck you good?” You’re so far gone that your body feels like one huge pulse; controlled by the single hand on your throat, the soft lips ghosting against yours. Your slightly trembling hand moves to grip his wrist as your hips roll into his, your head nodding almost frantically, giving him the green light. He smirks down at you, and you can practically _see_ the lust in his eyes. The second he tightens that grip around your throat, you can already tell that you’re going to have trouble walking straight.

He slides into you easily, filling you to the brim. The ragged moan that the two of you let out is so fucking filthy, that it makes the whole situation even more sexy. He doesn’t waste any time in setting up a deep, punishing rhythm. Warren’s lips seem to be connected permanently connected to your jaw as he fucks you, his teeth scraping at biting at the skin there. Your gasps are loud but you don’t care, because they’re quickly muffled by Warren. Your hands move under his arms, nails digging into his back, only causing Warren to thrust harder into you.

You’re already sensitive as hell from earlier, which makes you cum quickly around him. The second Warren feels you clench around him, eyes rolling back into your head, he _knows_ he’s got you.

“ _Fuck,_ yeah,” He groans, his hand leaving your throat. “So fuckin’ hot when you cum.”

You wrap your arms around his neck to yank him back down for a bruising, mean kiss, his tongue fucking into your mouth, as he feels his orgasm creep up on him. All it takes is for him to pull back and take one good look at you, to finish; the fucked out look you give him is what does him in.

He cums with almost a yell, his hips slamming hard into yours and stilling; his hot cum spilling into you. Warren collapses against your chest, his breath ragged, his heart rate elevated. It seems like you both just lay there for an eternity, as he keeps his head resting in the crook of your neck. Part of you wants to believe that this whole thing was a mistake; something to blame on the alcohol. The other part of you wants to feel his lips on yours once more, and to feel his hips thrusting against yours.

It feels like ages before Warren stands, moving to the kitchen to grab a warm cloth to clean you up with. You lie there feeling almost jaded as you let him clean you up, shivering at his touch when he moves the cloth between your legs. He leans back on his heels and offers you his hand, helping you up. You stumble slightly, but Warren is quick to catch you. Warren just coughs out a small laugh, which causes you to scowl at him playfully.

“I... I think I may need that shower now,” you tell him quietly. Warren just chuckles, and nods in understanding. He helps you to the bathroom, because lord knows your legs don’t work properly after _that._ In the bathroom, he starts up the shower and throws you a towel, turning to make his leave. Warren is surprised when you pull him back by his wrist, a tired smile playing at your lips. Your eyes are half lidded, high off the sex and still drunk off the wine. Warren wonders how you _still_ manage to look beautiful, even after he just fucked you senseless. His breath hitches when your finger grazes the dips of his abs, his eyes following your finger, tracing over the paint smears that litter his skin.

“I know you’re sweaty from the sex, but don’t think I didn’t notice the paint,” You tell him, as you look up at him through your lashes. Your fingers idly trace up his torso and to his neck, tracing his collarbones. Warren’s adam’s apple visibly bobs as you move them to his lips, tracing them gently. His lips part, and as a natural reflex, they slip into his mouth. His tongue laves over them for a fleeting moment, before you’re caught off guard by his hands gripping your hips. He all but slams you against the counter, your fingers popping out of his mouth. Warren mouths at your neck, one of his hands moving to inevitably finger you again. You’re quicker than him though, your hand wrapping around his wrist to stop him. He pulls away like a docile dog, probably thinking he pushed your limits. Pushing his curls out of his face in reassurance, you say,

“Not that I’m opposed to the idea, it’s just that the water’s probably getting cold.”

The confused visage melts away, replaced with an almost bashful smile. He just leans forward, resting his face in the crook of your neck. It takes you slightly aback when he presses a chaste  kiss underneath your ear - a kiss lovers most likely share. You try not to think about it too hard. He pulls back, and you both get into the shower. It’s quiet, but not uncomfortably so. You both clean up, and share small, fond smiles as you pass the shampoo back and forth. When you get out, he wraps you up in a towel, and leaves you be to change. As you dry your hair with your towel, the reflection in the mirror is only what can be described as a hot mess. He surely did a number on your neck, that’s for sure. Looks like it’s going to be nothing but scarves and turtlenecks for the next week.

He offers you his bed to stay in for the night, and as pleasing as it sounds, you have to deny. You have work early the next morning, and you’re _sure_ if you spend the night he’ll add more damage to your neck, which you just can’t have. As you gather your purse, Warren comes up behind you. His arms wrap around your waist, and you squirm a little when he presses light kisses to the marks he’d left earlier. Your arms overlap his, as you try to break free out of his grip, only to fail. He spins you so that he can mouth at your jaw. The bastard.

“Wa _rren,_ ” You all but stutter out, with a smile. He pulls back with a smug grin, raising his brows in fake innocence. “You’re making it so hard for me to leave.”

“That’s the idea, princess.” He quips quietly, his lips ghosting over yours as he leans in for another kiss. You turn at the last second, and push out of his grip with a mischievous grin. Warren sighs in defeat, pushing back his damp bangs.

Cutting him some slack, you stand on your tippy toes and press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. When you pull back, he’s got a crooked grin on his face, and almost a wicked gleam in his eye. You back up to the front door, and before you turn the knob to leave, you say,

“See you in class, Worthington.”

* * *

The next few weeks are slightly surreal. Neither of you acknowledges that you had sex, but the dynamic between the two of you is very obviously different. You’re friends now-or at least friendly. Warren reigns in his ‘constructive criticism’ in class, and you work together on another project, and everything feels normal, besides the whole ‘being friends’ thing. You still roll your eyes when you see him smooth talking the other people in the class and you definitely don’t cut him any slack for his ego, but it’s less aggressive and more bantering now, and you don’t really know where this is going, but you like being his friend, so you just figure you’ll let it happen. You don’t go to his parties though, and you don’t show up to any of his exhibits. They feel like you’re committing to something, though you’re not sure what, or even why it feels like that, and it sets you slightly on edge.

Warren doesn’t keep asking you to things either, which is why you’re feeling almost as surprised as he looks when you push open the door to one of the campus art galleries where his latest exhibit is being displayed along with other top student artists from the area. He glances over reflexively as he hears the faint noise from the door, and then freezes when he sees you. You’re pretty sure this is the first time he’s seen you put any significant effort into your appearance, and you’re not hating the distinctly appreciative look in his eye as he takes in your dress and heels.

“What’re you-” he starts, and breaks off, still staring at you as if this is unfamiliar territory and he doesn’t know how to proceed. “I don’t think I mentioned this show to you,” he remarks with feigned nonchalance, and you smirk at him.

“You didn’t. But I’m here to see if you can back up all that shit you like to talk about being an ‘up and coming artist’ or whatever,” you quip, and a small answering smirk of his own curves his lips as he hands you a champagne flute from a passing waiter.

“Princess, I can back up all my talk,” Warren retorts, a slightly suggestive emphasis in his tone that makes you laugh as you take hold of his proffered arm and he begins to lead you around the small gallery.

He takes you through the other student’s sections first, and you expect him to trash talk everything about their exhibits, but he doesn’t-well, not all that much. He points out details in the pieces that you wouldn’t have picked up on and he tells you about the process and the techniques you’re unfamiliar with without being overtly condescending about it. You’re almost hyper aware of the other girls in the gallery throwing lingering glances his way, but not once does he leave you to fend for yourself. 

It takes you the better part of two hours to reach his section of the exhibition, in part because he seems to have taken it upon himself to explain the aesthetically and technically impressive aspects of the other artist’s work and because he keeps being stopped by unfamiliar, but important looking people. When he finally reaches his own display, you’re astonished by his lack of overt arrogance, actually looking a little unsure of himself as you stand in front of the first big piece. It’s a hazy, unfocused, dimly lit photograph of his apartment living room in weak evening sunlight, and while you can certainly appreciate its aesthetic value, you feel like you’re grasping at straws as you try to come up with a deeper meaning for it.

“So what does this mean?” you say eventually, still studying the enlarged photo on the wall before you. “I mean, it’s a good photo, and I get the technique, but is there a message you’re trying to send or whatever?” Warren laughs sheepishly, one hand ruffling his hair unconsciously.

“I-uh-that shot was a total accident, to be honest. I told my professor that it was an attempt to capture the intangible sense of melancholy brought by the ending of a day, but actually, I fell asleep on the couch and my glasses fell off, and then when I woke up again the light was gorgeous, but I could barely see, so I grabbed what luckily turned out to be my good camera and sort of hoped for the best,” he explains, cheeks slightly flushed, and you can’t stop the giggle that escapes you as your gaze drifts from him to the photo and back to him again.

“Y’know,” You remark after taking a second to compose yourself. “I definitely thought you wore those glasses to be some ironic cliché hipster or some bullshit like that rather than actually needing to correct your vision.”

“Yeah, I’m blind as a bat.” Warren nods complacently at your remark and the utterly unperturbed manner in which he accepts your jab brings on a fresh wave of laughter from you, leaving a slightly inscrutable smile on his face as he watches you. The next block of work is a small spread of still life charcoals, and as you examine them a little more closely, you let out an incredulous chuckle.

“These are from class. Our class. I thought you were an edgy boundary pushing artist or whatever but you actually put some honest to god fruit bowl still life in your big exhibit,” you giggle in an almost accusatory manner, and he glares at you in mock offence.

“Hey, don’t knock the classics. My technique is really good in these and I gotta counterbalance my edgy stuff with something so the old people don’t have heart attacks,” he says defensively, and you roll your eyes, taking his arm again and tugging him on to the next display board.

“Whatever you say, maestro.”

Warren watches you as you pull him around his exhibit, asking questions about his work and more often than not teasing him about his answers, not taking any of his gracefully articulated pretentious explanations seriously when you ask what the art means. He’s utterly unaware of the other girls watching him enviously as he walks with you around the gallery and the thought crosses his mind that he hasn’t had this much fun with someone else in a long time. Your skin is warm against his and even though neither of you has mentioned that night in his loft, he sure as hell hasn’t forgotten it. That night and the events that transpired aren’t far from your mind either, and as you approach the final photograph in his exhibit, you can’t stop the soft gasp that escapes your lips, because it’s _you_.

The photo is familiar, but it’s not one of the ones the two of you handed in as your final project. The painting on your back is a technically excellent as you remember it being, but something about the lighting of the photo and the drape of the sheet over your lower back makes this one infinitely more suggestive, and you look away after a couple of seconds, heat rising to your cheeks.

“What, no questions about this one?” Warren asks, teasingly and you roll your eyes, even as you avoid looking over at him.

“No, I think I’m already pretty familiar with the details of this particular photo, thanks,” you retort, and he chuckles. Looking around the gallery, you notice that the rest of the guests have more or less cleared out now, and the staff hired for the event are starting to clear away the tables. You don’t check the time but you know it’s getting late, and yet you’re not quite ready to leave because you like spending time with Warren when he’s like this. No arrogant superiority and not blatantly flirting with anything that breathes. Glancing up at him, you make a split second decision, tightening your grip on his arm and starting to tug him towards the door.

“C’mon, let me buy you a drink. There’s a really good bar not far from here,” you say decisively. He doesn’t resist, but he gives you a quizzical look as you pull him along the sidewalk.

“I’m not complaining or anything, but is there a particular motivation to buy me a drink?” He asks and you let out a short laugh, leaning into his side a little because the night is colder than you had expected.

“Let’s just call it payment in kind, or whatever. I’ve talked a lot of shit about your art, and you proved me wrong tonight, so it’s the least I can do. Besides, I’ve been having a good night. Have you?” You tease him, and Warren chuckles in response, unwinding his arm from yours and tugging you to a brief pause as he takes off his jacket and drapes it around your shoulders before offering you his arm again. You give him a surprised look as you hook your arm through his, leaning a little more heavily against him than necessary because you never expected him to be like this with you, but you definitely don’t dislike it in the slightest. “Look at you being a gentleman, Worthington,” you quip, and you can’t quite tell under the dim glow of the streetlights, but you think he might actually be blushing.

“Don’t spread it around, I have a rep to maintain,” he jokes, and you roll your eyes and elbow him lightly in the side as you continue down the sidewalk together.

It takes five minutes to reach the bar, and when you slip inside, it’s fairly empty, only a few other patrons nursing drinks in booths or at the counter. You hand Warren his jacket and point him at a table in the corner as you head to the bar to order drinks for the two of you.

“Did you-you didn’t need to buy me a drink,” he starts and you scoff, cutting him off.

“I said I would and it’s not like one beer costs me all that much. You can buy the next few if you really feel you have to for whatever reason,” you say, and he just laughs, clinking his bottle to yours before taking a sip.

The two of you sit and drink for another hour, and true to his word, Warren buys the next few drinks for the two of you. It’s a little surreal, spending time with him like this, and as the night wears on, this unfamiliar tension starts to build between the two of you. It makes you feel like there are sparks skittering over your skin and you can’t stop thinking about the first time you and he were drinking together. His hair has gotten progressively messier and his shirtsleeves are rolled up and it could be your imagination or the alcohol or a whole range of other factors, but his crooked grin seems to be getting more and more suggestive by the minute and you can’t help but consider just how of big a mistake it might be to kiss him.

It only takes one or two drinks for you to be on Warren’s side of the table, leaning into his side with his arm around your shoulder, and you don’t really want to think about what the consequences might be if the night goes where you’re steering it. Not long after that, the pool table in the corner of the bar clears out and you get up from your seat with a smirk, grabbing his hand and pulling him over.

“You know how to play, or am I gonna have to ask someone else here to teach me?” You ask with a wicked smirk on your face. Warren smirks back at you as he downs the last of his drink, rising to his feet and following you as you tug him over to where the pool table stands in the corner.

“Don’t you worry sweetheart, I know how to play,” he drawls, slinging an arm over your shoulders and pressing in close to your side as you survey the table. You know how to play pool. You play pretty damn well. But Warren doesn’t need to know that. Though, you’re not sure he’d care that you were strategically miscommunicating about your skill level, given that result is having you pressed up against his chest as he leans over you, his arms around your shoulders to help you guide the pool cue.

You’d be lying if you said you weren’t enjoying the warmth of his body pressed up against yours or the way his arms felt as they wrapped around yours, repositioning you gently. His breath is warm on your neck and on an impulse, you deliberately rub your ass up against him. The way his breath hitches in his chest is enough to bring a satisfied smirk to your face as you do it again, a little less subtly this time. Warren lets out a low, muffled groan as you line up the next shot, hitting it dead on. His grip on your body is getting steadily tighter as you continue to deliberately roll your hips back against his, gratified when you feel his hard on against your ass.

It takes all of about ten more minutes of this teasing before he takes the pool cue from you, setting it on the table before gripping your waist tightly and ducking his head to graze his lips along the column of your throat. You let out a low sigh of contentment as you turn in his arms to face him, a hint of a challenge glimmering in your eyes as you wind your arms around his neck, briefly taking in the empty bar before smirking at him.

“Bathroom. Five minutes,” you whisper, voice low and suggestive, before pulling away, walking over to grab your bag from your chair and then past him to the bathroom in the corner, incredibly aware of his gaze on you as you go. 

He’s there in less than five, but the bar is almost totally deserted so it doesn’t really matter. The second the door is locked behind the two of you, he’s pushing you up against the sink counter, hands heavy on your hips as he kisses you hard. Your tongue is sliding against his as you wrap your arms around his shoulders, pulling him in closer as you slip back to sit on the edge of the counter. As Warren dips his head to mouth along your neck, you reach blindly into your bag, feeling around till you pull a condom out. He lets out a breathless groan of arousal when he sees what’s in your hand.

“You came here knowing you wanted to fuck me, didn’t you princess?” he growls, his voice rough and hoarse, and you just shoot him a coy smile as you undo his belt buckle, pushing his pants and boxers down past his hips to roll the condom on, feeling a surge of satisfaction at the low hiss he lets out at your touch.

“Maybe I did, maybe I didn’t. It’s not like you don’t wanna fuck me, though, is it?”

That’s all it takes for him to push you back further onto the counter, shoving your dress up your thighs as he hauls your panties down your legs and discards them before parting your legs with rough hands, pushing into you with an urgency that makes your head spin as he tugs the neckline of your dress down to knead at your breasts.

It’s quick and rough and hot and when he pulls away from you to dispose of the condom, you have an assortment of marks along the neckline of your dress that you can’t quite hide. Warren gives you a crooked, tired grin as he re-buckles his belt.

“That was a damn sight more fun than the gallery, sweetheart,” he says and you smile at him in the mirror as you touch up your lipstick.

“I know how to have a good time, Worthington.”

He pockets your panties before heading back out to the main bar, and you follow a few seconds later, a self satisfied smirk firmly in place as you leave the bathroom. Neither of you mentions the sex as he walks you back to your apartment, and he doesn’t kiss you goodnight.

* * *

After the bar incident, you and Warren to no obvious surprise, start to hang out more. You don’t hook up, but you do find yourself frequenting his loft. He uses you as his muse more often than not, painting abstract drawings of you or taking candids of you. Your friendship is an odd one, but even now, as you’re passing back and forth a bottle of wine, you know there is an underlying current of tension that you know only he could relieve. You’re both more than a little tipsy now, so your filter at this point is almost completely shot.

“You know what I need?” You say suddenly, wiping your mouth with your sleeve as you pass him the bottle.

“What?” He asks, taking another swig.

“I need to get laid more often.” You state, as he pauses for a second, with a calculating stare. It doesn’t really process in your mind how suggestive his visage is, so you grab the wine bottle from his hand and take another drink. There’s a moment of silence, and you can practically hear the wheels turning in his head.

“I could help you out.” He finally answers. His voice is steady and nonchalant and maybe a little too casual for your liking, but hey, if he’s offering, who are you to say no?

And all too quickly, the bottle of wine is long forgotten and he hauls you into his lap. Your lips move fervently with his, tongues sliding against each other as his hands move to grip your hips. You’re both not too sure how this friends-with-benefits thing is supposed to work, but all he can focus on is the way your hips are grinding down onto his. Pulling away from him, Warren’s hands immediately pushes your skirt up to your hips, stroking you over your panties as you unclasp his belt. He raises his hips so he can push down his jeans and boxers, and practically tear your panties off. You cup his cheeks again and press your lips against his as he raises your hips up, and sinks you down on his length. It’s quick and fast and dirty and you wonder how he can make even a quickie feel so good.

When it’s over, you lean against his chest to catch your breath. His hands are still splayed out on your hips, and his head is leaning back onto the couch. You bury your face in the juncture of his neck, breathing in his cologne. You both sit there for a couple moments, before you decide that it’s not a comfortable position. Tapping his shoulder weakly, he seems to get the point and moves you off his lap.

Warren chuckles as he watches you slip your panties back on, and you raise your brows curiously at him.

“What’s so funny?” You ask him, as he runs a hand through his hair.

“The fact that you think I’m finished with you.” He says simply, sending a wave of heat throughout you once more. Bastard.

* * *

Even though you and Warren never explicitly set out any rules for your relationship, you certainly never felt angry at the fact that you were getting laid regularly. Being with Warren has its perks, you figured that out fairly quickly. For one, he always has good wine on hand. That’s always a plus. Secondly, you always knew you really weren’t one for vanilla sex, but you always had to keep your mouth shut for all the partners you had that weren’t willing to explore anything even remotely kinky. But with Warren - he’s more than willing to explore anything with you. The first time you do anything remotely kinky is after you model for him yet again for some photography project. You’re once again getting slightly too drunk, and accidentally slip that you have some fantasies that you’ve never acted on. The second that leaves your mouth, Warren is shifting closer to you, placing his hand casually on your thigh. “Oh yeah?” He drawls. “What kind of fantasies, baby girl?” And that’s how you end up splayed out on his bed, legs spread for him as he holds a video camera in his hands. Needless to say, you threatened Warren with his life if that video got out anywhere. He just laughed, the sound low and rough and somehow so, so attractive. “Baby, this is for nights when you’re busy.”

Being with Warren also means that you suddenly have a whole new collection of dainty lingerie and sex toys, courtesy of his “asshole father’s” cash, as he puts it. The only price you have to pay for it is letting him take pictures of you in the lingerie, and sometimes the photoshoots are even for a real project, not just for his own enjoyment; though you’d be lying if you said you didn’t also enjoy the photoshoots. There’s something about having him continually tell you how gorgeous you are while pointing a camera at you that’s good for your self esteem. The toys are what get you more excited, though. He bought ropes, but his favorite are the silk ribbons he uses to restrain you. One night he took some photos of your hands one night, bound up in the silk, and put some of the close study shots of your hands and wrists in his next art show- which was a fun risk to take, and when Warren invites you to his next small art show and you see the photos hanging on the wall, the thrill of the low level exhibitionism is enough to have you tugging him through an out of the way corridor and into an empty bathroom. It’s quick and rough and your moans are muffled against his mouth and his hand and at the back of your mind, you wonder when you got so daring, so explorative, and whether Warren is a bad influence, or just a really fun one.  

Another risk you and Warren indulge in is putting the dark room in the art department to good use after hours. The golden boy of the undergraduate art program was trusted with his own key, and he makes sure to abuse this power to the fullest of his ability. There have been multiple incidents in which Warren hauled you up on to the table, and fucked you thoroughly with his hand on your throat or over your mouth. The dark red lighting seems almost ironic, you suppose. There were also times in which he took several pictures of you on film in the dark room: with you on your knees, and his hand in your hair. (When you developed those pictures, you both couldn’t stop laughing because “shit, Warren, we’ve defiled the sanctity of the dark room.”)

There are more body art photoshoots too, and despite always telling you he has the best intentions for the modesty of the shoot at the start, you both know it’s always a lie. You’ll start as professionally as possible, but infallibly, you both end up naked and the camera is forgotten on a shelf across the room and the paint or ink or chalk powder that started on your skin ends up smudged over both of you. It’s messy and exhausting and exhilarating and at the back of your mind you know you wouldn’t want to give up this kind of fun for anything. Maybe it should worry you, so instead you just don’t think about it.

He puts some of the more anonymous photos of you in his art exhibitions, and you help him pick out the ones that would be deemed safe for public viewing. You refuse to compromise your privacy or your identity, but seeing the shots of your back or legs or arms or whatever Warren was photographing at the time appear on the walls of his student exhibits is more than a little thrilling. The two of you will kill time after sex by going through his photos and laughing together as you come up with bullshit artistic justifications for them so that he can submit them for a photography course credit in his portfolio. It’s fun and carefree and you tell yourself that it’s all platonic and for the most part, you believe it. You lose track of how many times you fall asleep in his bed or on his couch, and the times you wake up to him making coffee, naked in your little kitchen. _It’s just platonic,_ you tell yourself. _Nothing else. Just sex. We’re just friends_. If you think about it too long, it might scare you a little how easily your lives fit together. So you just don’t think about it.

As much as you wish you could stay in this perfect little bubble of sex and art and wine, you can’t. You’re in the real world, and the real world has exams and schedules and feelings that refuse to just sit aside and not be dealt with.

Tonight, you’re sitting on the foot of your bed with tears in your eyes. You’re pretty sure you bombed an important test, and it seemed like every customer you had at work made it their personal goal to ruin your night - and had accomplished their mission without fail. You can’t remember the last time you felt so simultaneously furious and upset. Gripping your phone in your hand, your thumbs dance over Warren’s contact information, restless anger surging through your body like a second pulse. You’re not sure why you’re overthinking it because that’s what you do. When you’re both stressed or angry, you call each other and fuck it out. You shake your head, push any doubts of that aside quickly.

_You still up?_

It doesn’t take long for him to reply.

**_I’ll be over in ten._ **

You don’t know whether you’re relieved or not, but it’s too late to go back now.

* * *

When he arrives, he’s quick and straight to the point. He kisses you hard and filthy and pushes you back into your room, and turns you to your stomach where he fucks you hard with his hand on the back of your neck. It’s rough and a little angry and it’s over as quickly as it started.

Afterwards, he pulls out of you with a huff and collapses onto his back. You lie there for a moment, trying to convince yourself that this has in fact made you feel better, instead of the exact opposite. But you’re only human, and you can’t just hide away emotions like that. The thing you want most is to have emotional vulnerability with Warren, but it just makes you hurt inside more knowing that he’s not actually your boyfriend. It took a long time for you to get to this point; far longer than it should have. The heat from his body beside yours is making everything feel way too real, and the fact that you find his presence comforting is terrifying because you know this isn’t something you can rely on. You roll to your side the second you feel tears beginning to prick at the backs of your eyes, because the last thing you need is for him to see you like this. He shifts slightly in the bed behind you and you don’t think you’ve ever been so close to someone and yet so utterly distant from them.

Warren freezes when he hears the choked off, shaky gasp that escapes you. He isn’t stupid, he knows that you’re upset. He turns his head to see your body shake slightly, and he can hear you attempting to pull yourself together. Truth be told? This scares him. It scares him because he’s never been good at handling emotions, let alone other people’s emotions.

But there’s something about _you_ crying like this, that saddens him. It makes him want to comfort you, and tell you whatever is happening that’s troubling you- it’s going to be okay. In a perfect world, maybe he’d be able to do that. But this- comforting someone of their emotions- that’s a whole new ballpark for Warren. So he shifts to his side, and tentatively places his hand on your shoulder. You visibly flinch at his touch, not used to something so gentle like that from him. The two of you don’t really do gentle, even at your most carefree and relaxed. Gentle just isn’t something that usually exists between you.  You relax into his touch as soon as he starts soothingly caressing the skin there, your eyes fluttering shut as you let yourself get a little lost in the soft touch. It’s not what you expected from him, but you’ll take what you can get in terms of a little tenderness, even if you know it’s a lie. Even if you know that it’ll just be more painful for you when he leaves after this. Your breath catches suddenly as he leans down and presses an almost chaste kiss to your neck, shifting slightly behind you to drops another kiss to your shoulder.

You know that this is his way of comforting you, but it just makes you even more emotional, because he’s not your boyfriend. Not even close. This whole exchange just reminds you how fragile your agreement is becoming, and how you know it’s not going to remain the same. Letting yourself get swept up in the lie the two of you were crafting would have consequences, and you had known that right from the start, when you embarked on this trainwreck of an arrangement months ago, but knowing that isn’t making it any less painful now that the illusion is falling apart. You don’t want to acknowledge your feelings for him, because that feels like admitting that whatever you feel is real, and not just a brief lapse in judgement.

Warren presses several more kisses over the curve of your shoulder, his touch more delicate than you’ve ever felt it, and you will yourself not to let out the sob you’re holding back. His fingers glide over your side for a second, before you feel the bed dip, and you hear the clasp of his belt. He’s redressing silently, processing what just happened. You hear him pause when he walks to the door, as if he’s going to say something, anything to make you feel better. But he doesn’t. He leaves you curled up in your bed, and the second the door closes, you finally let yourself cry.

* * *

You don’t sleep with Warren for a long time after that night. Every time you see him, it’s a reminder that you’re wanting something you can’t have. You should never have let it get this far, and now you’re frantically trying to haul yourself out of an emotional investment in an impossible situation, though if you’re being honest with yourself, it’s far too late to avoid an emotional investment. You’re already in way over your head. All you want is a distraction, and that’s why it feels like a miracle when James comes into your life. He’s in your literary analysis class, and he’s got a look in his eye that just draws you in. He’s nothing like Warren. He’s quiet, thoughtful, and isn’t reckless in any sense of the word. There’s no trace of Warren’s reckless energy in his eyes and you tell yourself that this is what you want, what you need right now. Something stable. Dependable. Safe. James is kind, and who are you to say no to a date with someone who’s as perfect as him?

He isn’t stupid. He’s heard the rumours about you and Warren around campus, and he was sure to ask you carefully and respectfully if you and Warren were still… doing what you were doing. No specifics were mentioned and he wasn’t using it against you. Just asking you where exactly the two of you stood.

Maybe, if you were a perfect person, you’d tell him the truth. You’d tell him the truth and you’d do what you’d had to do in order to resolve it, to get to know James better on the right terms. The right way. But you’re not a perfect person. As it turns out, you’re not even a good person, because you lie. You lie and tell him that it’s over, and that you’re willing to get to know James without any distractions from Warren. You do your best to push all the thoughts and memories of him away during the date with James, trying not to think about how different it feels when Warren holds your hand.

Throughout the next couple of weeks, you spend less and less time with Warren, and more and more time with James. The only time you even see Warren is when he calls you up in the dead of night, looking for stress relief or anger relief. You don’t stop seeing him entirely, though. And when you see him, it’s not quite hate sex, but the fun and the playfulness from all your previous hook ups is gone now, replaced with an almost bitter urgency.

“Been a while, princess,” he spits one night at two am when he comes over. He has you pressed up against the wall and his hand is around your throat and his eyes are dark. “Am I not good enough for you anymore?”

He’s never been jealous before. Not like this. He resents the time you spend with James and he doesn’t know how to handle it because he hasn’t had a real relationship since he was nineteen and naive and fresh out of high school, but god only knows he fucked that one up badly enough. He hasn’t seen Alex since he was leaving the state and they said they’d try long distance. He hasn’t spoken to him since then either. And in the time that has elapsed since that fell apart, Warren has had night after night of casual hook ups but he’s never cared about a hook up before, not like he does with you and as he watches you with James, he’s pretty sure his feelings are driving him insane, because every time he thinks about Alex and about how he ran away from feelings that seemed bigger than himself he feels like a goddamn coward. It was fear that stopped him reaching out then, but it’s the same paralyzing fear that keeps him picking up the phone and calling you at night.

James is as good and as sweet as a boy trying to earn the approval of your parents or your grandma, or whatever. He’s always happy and always looking to please. When he touches you, he’s reverent and delicate and almost careful; as if you’ll scold him like a child for doing something you’re not into. You almost pity him, because he doesn’t know that every time he touches you - you’re thinking of Warren. You’re thinking of Warren and how he grips your hips tightly and whispers filthy, profane words in your ear. James is nice, James is kind. The kind of boy parents only hope their child will settle down with. He’s safe. But he’s boring, and you know he deserves someone far better than you.

Balancing things between James and Warren was just barely within your capabilities to begin with, but as things get slowly more serious with James and you still don’t quite break it off with Warren, everything starts to feel like it’s spinning wildly out of your control. You know you’re a terrible person. That James deserves better and that you’re treating him appallingly. You’re constantly, painfully aware of just how fucked up your behaviour is at the moment, but you can’t help but feel that calling off whatever he’s trying to build between the two of you is admitting to yourself that you want something real with Warren, and you’re not ready to admit that to yourself yet. You’re not sure if you’ll ever be ready to admit that to yourself, even if you’re aware of it in the deepest recesses of your mind. You know Warren better than you think anyone else does, you know about his art and his habits and a bit about his dad, and you know that he’s reckless and self destructive and that he doesn’t do relationships. Which wasn’t a problem till now.

It takes just over three months for for your self destructive freefall to finally come to an end with a shattering impact. If you’re totally honest with yourself, you’re surprised it didn’t happen sooner. Everything has been spiralling far out of your grip and you can barely get yourself through the day at this point. Things were never supposed to be this complicated, but realistically, this was never going to be anything but complicated and you know it’s your fault. You haven’t had any real control over your trainwreck of a personal life since you started talking to James, but it seems to have taken time to catch up to you. You go over to James’s apartment after a class one day, and when you try to kiss him hello, he pulls back, his expression frigid. His voice is even and despite the self control he seems to be exerting, there’s a note of bitterness to it that makes you stand up a little straighter as you look at him quizzically. He tells you that it’s over. That whatever happened between you and Warren-whatever there was or maybe still is between you and Warren left you too emotionally unavailable for James to be with you. His hands are steady and his expression is ice cold as he tells you flatly that he wanted to make it work for the two of you, but you clearly didn’t.

You know that should sting more than it does, but you also know that he’s right. No matter what you tried to tell yourself, you never quite managed to give anything real with James a chance. You know it makes you a bad person, but somewhere amidst the clandestine three am hookups with Warren, you had managed to make your peace with something less than sainthood. What does hurt is the look of shocked betrayal that crosses James’s face when you don’t try to protest or ask him to stay, you just nod silently and walk out. He had called it off, and he didn’t intend to stay, no matter what you said, but he wanted you to plead with him because that was how he thought it should go, and you’re just too damn tired to fight for him to stay when you didn’t really want him around in the first place. You didn’t set out to hurt him, but the clarity that comes with hindsight tells you that you also didn’t set out to make him happy.

The stark expression of unhappiness on his face stays with you as you walk back to your own place, leaving an insistent discomfort in it’s wake. Normally you would call Warren over and fuck him till you were too tired to do anything other than fall asleep, all thoughts of your problems temporarily left behind, but you don’t think you can face him right now. Not after that. As you fling your bags and keys onto a table and flop down onto your couch, your gaze falls on a large bottle of rum and a two litre bottle of diet coke sitting on the edge of your kitchen counter and a quiet, traitorous voice at the back of your mind whispers that you can’t face Warren sober but that there’s an easy way to fix that and to make you forget about James as well, at least for a moment.

* * *

You’re not entirely sure how much you drink, but what you do know is that you’re so far gone that the rum doesn’t make you cringe as you knock it back easily. Your makeup rubbed off long ago, and your cheeks are tear stained from when you first started drinking. As you hold the half empty bottle of rum in your hands, you look over at your phone and decide if calling Warren over to fuck him would really be in your best interest in this moment. It’s getting harder and harder for you to deny that you want to see him, and even though the distraction he’ll provide is a guaranteed brief reprieve, the sense of hollowness that is sure to come soon after is a daunting prospect. You pick up your phone and stare at his contact name, wondering if you really are a glutton for punishment.

He’s over within five minutes of you texting him, and the second he’s through the door you press yourself up against him. You yank him down by the back of the neck, and kiss him demandingly as your other hand moves to palm him over his jeans. “C’mon,” you mutter against his mouth, backing your bodies up until his lower back is pressing against the kitchen island. “Want you to fuck me.” Warren isn’t stupid. He could smell the alcohol the second he stepped into your apartment. He may be an asshole, but he knows the limits and this is past his. He pulls away from you and cups your cheek gently, taking in your bloodshot and tired eyes and the dry tear tracks on your face.

“Baby, I’m not going to fuck you while you’re drunk,” Warren says softly, voice quiet and even. “Not like this.” You’re pretty sure this is the first time he’s called you baby without the intention of sleeping with you, and that mixed with the alcohol and the sudden, painful reminder that wanting him the way you do has destroyed a relationship, makes you step back from him abruptly, wrapping your arms around your torso, and letting out an utterly helpless sob.

“Why?” You ask, voice shaking. “It hasn’t stopped you before.”

“We were both drunk those times,” he replies gently. He’s stepping towards you now, and you know you should back away, but you can’t bring yourself to walk away from him, because you’ve never pretended to be anything but selfish and right now all you want is for him to hold you so you can pretend, if only for a moment, that whatever exists between the two of you is something real and permanent and romantic. Not whatever imaginary bliss the two of you have created. “This is different. Just- just- just let me sort you out, okay?”

All you can do is nod weakly and let him take over, as he starts wiping away the tears that have dried on your cheeks. It’s silent between the two of you as he gently takes your hand in his, and walks you to your bathroom. He leads you in and sets you on the edge of the tub, as he starts up the shower. He rifles through your drawers to find some makeup wipes and kneels down in front of you, carefully wiping the remainder of your makeup from your cheeks. The tenderness is something entirely new from him, the delicacy with which he’s touching you something you haven’t seen from him before. It makes you angry and sad that he’s being so gentle with you, but you don’t say a word. You’ve already done enough damage.

He leaves for a moment to grab you a fresh pair of pyjamas, and you’re undressing silently as he comes back. Warren averts his gaze from your body, as if he’s never seen you naked, and takes his leave from you once more.

You take your time in the shower, standing under the stream of water and trying not to think about what’s just happened and what it all means. You’re too tired to keep lying to yourself about what you want from him, but you can’t let yourself be anything other than realistic about what exists between the two of you. Friends with benefits isn’t always sustainable, as you’ve apparently proved to yourself. The sound of the water drumming against the tile isn’t loud enough to drown your thoughts our, but it makes everything feel a little hazy, a little far away. As if there’s a heavy curtain between you and your towering mountain of problems. You don’t want to step back into your immediate reality yet, so you stand under the water till you think you’re about to fall asleep standing up, then you force yourself to shut off the water and step out into the real world again. The cool air on your skin is jarring, and you shiver reflexively as the cold sinks into your bones, leaving you a little numb, though not enough to let you forget just how much of a mess you’ve gotten yourself into.

When you’re finished drying off, you pull on the pyjamas he left out for you, taking a second to stare almost blankly at your reflection in the still foggy bathroom mirror. It feels like a weird moment of disconnect with reality as you take in your reflection. You can recognize yourself, but you feel so distant from everything that a part of you wonders if it’s actually your own reflection. Shuffling out into your room, you see he’s setting a glass of water on your nightstand accompanied with an advil for the morning. When Warren looks up, you’re both silent; waiting for a reaction from each other. Seconds tick by on the clock and still no reaction from either of you, both too scared to say anything right now. The room is rife with immense emotional volatility, as if a single wrong word could spark an inferno, utterly destroying whatever tense agreement remains between the two of you. Another second ticks by, then another. He comes over to you and takes his hand in yours, and tucks you in your bed. You’re sleepy and compliant under his gentle touch and it’s easy for him to carefully push you down to sit on the edge of the bed, slowly curling your legs under you as you settle down against your pillows. You look exhausted and beaten down and so unbelievably vulnerable that the surge of protectiveness Warren feels in response is simultaneously a surprise and the most natural response he could think of. He’s looking at you and all he wants is to comfort and to protect and to hold you, but he’s sure he breaks everything he touches and he knows how fucked up the relationship the two of you have is, but he couldn’t bring himself to cut you off even if he wanted to.  

When he moves to walk out into the living room, he’s halted by your hand circling his wrist. You’re not pulling him in for anything sexual, all you want is some sort of human contact. A little of the tenderness he showed you earlier. But he won’t be swayed, gently tugging his wrist out of your grasp. That’s always been one of your downfalls; wanting more than you can have, though you were always pretty self aware about that flaw when it came to Warren. He sighs and crouches next to your bed, pressing a kiss to your forehead and giving you a sad little smile. He wants to stay so desperately, but he can’t. It’s already hard for him to leave you like this and he knows if he stays, if he lets himself hold you, he might never be able to leave. It’ll only make everything more complicated, and he knows that it won’t help either of you in the long run.

So he stands, and tells himself it’s the right decision to leave before he does anything he’ll regret. He pads off into the living room, and settles down on your couch. His gaze wanders to the bottle of rum and coke on your coffee table, and he tries to shake off the overwhelming sense of guilt about everything that’s happened between the two of you. He can’t make it go, though and for possibly the first time, he lets himself actually think about the complete catastrophe of a situation he’s gotten the two of you in. You wanted this, he reminds himself. You got yourself involved in this mess and it’s your fault it went to shit like you should have known it would. His fingers are drumming absentmindedly on the edge of the coffee table as he reaches for the bottle of rum with the other hand. The apartment is silent but he’s almost painfully aware of your presence only a room over. His knuckles are white around the neck of the bottle as he takes a long gulp, sitting back against the sofa and trying to push any thought of going and lying down beside you out of his mind. He forces himself to stay put, and he knows he should probably just go back to his own place, but he can’t bring himself to leave. So he stays put, staring at the blank wall and drinking to try and make himself feel better. He comes to terms with his feelings, and he wonders if you’re both too far gone to reverse the damage.

* * *

Your ear-piercing alarm for your eight am lecture is what jolts you awake, and the splitting headache that follows almost instantaneously only makes the blaring of the alarm worse. Your hand comes down on the snooze button, and when you roll over to go back to sleep, you catch a glimpse of the water and advil, and it’s a bitter reminder of what you did-or rather, what you tried to do last night. When you finally manage to force yourself up out of bed, you don’t even bother changing out of your sweats and hoodie into something decent, because after all, you’re not the only one who’s going to be showing up to an eight a.m. lecture looking like they maybe got hit by a bus the previous night. Ignoring the throbbing in your temples, you down the entire glass of water and the advil quickly before walking into the living room. You’re intending to head directly out the door but the sight that greets you makes you freeze up.

Warren is stretched out as best he can on your shitty, small couch, face pressed against a cushion with a too-small blanket draped over him. He looks entirely out of place and uncomfortable on the couch, and yet somehow he fits into the rest of the room perfectly. Like he belongs here. You’re not completely sure why the fact he stayed makes you want to cry, but it does. You’re tearing up at the mere sight of him curled up on your couch, glasses on the coffee table, somehow far more vulnerable than you’ve ever seen him before and every part of you is conflicted because you want to run far away from all this mess and complication but part of you just wants to go and curl up beside him and you know you can’t do that. Wiping the tears off your cheeks with your shirtsleeve, you manage to tear your eyes away from him, heading quickly over to grab your keys and wallet from the tabletop before walking out the door. You’re definitely not quiet as you go, and you don’t want to think too hard about whether the slam of the door was an intentional outburst of frustration and hurt or just coincidence. The loud bang of the door rouses Warren, and the second he registers what’s happening, he’s scrambling up off the couch, trying to get your attention, to talk to you about the previous night, but before he can get any words out, you’re gone.

* * *

Betsy Braddock and Warren have a very specific kind of friendship. Their sober interactions are limited strictly to small talk and occasionally making plans to get wasted together. When alcohol is involved, their conversation ranges from families to work to hookups and beyond. It’s very, very rare that Warren ever talks about how he’s feeling, but if he gets drunk enough to open up, then talking to Betsy actually helps. Her tolerance for pity parties is non existent and she’s a little pushy and blunt and somehow, even while completely shitfaced, she manages to cut directly to the centre of whatever Warren talks to her about. When she runs into him outside the art department later that day, after he’s left your place, she takes one look at him and says “I’m coming over tonight, Worthington. Make sure there’s enough alcohol.”

He knows what to expect from the night, and so when she comes over, he tells Betsy everything. How the first hookup happened, how it continued from there. The way things started to fall apart. Warren tells her the entire thing, steadily working his way through a large glass of vodka, explaining James and then what happened last night. And to his shock, she doesn’t even interrupt. Not even once. When he’s finished, he downs the remainder of the glass of vodka he’s been nursing, looking at her with an expectant expression.

“You’re a fucking idiot,” Betsy says after what feels like a small eternity, looking at him like the answer should be blatantly obvious to him, even while astoundingly drunk. He just cocks his head to the side in mild offence and curiosity. She rolls her eyes and takes the bottle from him, pouring another glass out for herself before continuing “it’s fucking obvious. You love her. And she loves you.” Warren lets out a hollow laugh and runs a hand through his curls, giving Betsy a long, appraising look. All he does is pour another glass of the cheap vodka they’re drinking, and knock it back, ignoring the burn as he downs it.

“That’s not fucking helpful,” he retorts after a moment and she gives a short, incredulous laugh.

“‘Course it fucking is. You know exactly what I’m gonna tell you to do, you’re just too chicken to actually go do it. So if you were hoping I had another, easier solution, then tough shit,” she snaps back, a small smile of amusement tugging at her lips. Warren just groans and scrubs a hand over his face, squeezing his eyes shut to try and dissipate the pounding in his head.

“You know how bad I am with this shit, Bets,” He says eventually. “Let’s just say you’re right and she does- I don’t want to fuck this up. I don’t- I don’t want to fuck her up. I’m damaging. You know that. Remember Alex? I couldn’t fucking handle being away from him, and I just freaked out and stopped talking to him. I was scared and I panicked, so you’re entirely right about me being a coward. What if I hurt her?”

Betsy sighs in resignation, and wrestles the bottle out of his hand to take a swig of her own, keeping it out of his grip when she puts it down again, before saying “she’s a big girl. She knows what you’re like, and she knows what she’s getting herself in for with you. And you don’t want to hurt her. You know better now. You were basically a kid with Alex, you were so young then. Like, ridiculously young,” she explains in a patronizing voice, as if explaining something very simple for the thousandth time.

“Fuck you, I was nineteen,” Warren snaps back grumpily, glaring at Betsy and earning himself a long suffering eye roll.

“Barely legal, Worthington. Basically still kids. You’re not getting my point here. If you’re really worried about it then just fucking talk to her. I know you’re bad at that, but if you’re really that worried then write a fucking speech ahead of time or whatever, I don’t care but this is the only way you can actually figure this out for yourself,” Betsy fires back. Her words hit Warren like a bullet to the heart, and he realizes just how far gone he is for you. It’s always been there, from the moment you first slept together up until that night you got drunk. You were always there, but he spent so long convincing himself your hookups were only ever going to be a thing of convenience, that it took him until tonight to actually figure it out. He’s not sure how long he just sits there, dumbfounded, staring blankly at the table, but Betsy clears her throat loudly to get his attention and he jerks suddenly back to awareness. Getting up from the table, he makes it over to where his boots have been kicked off by the door and starts pulling them on before Betsy grabs his wrist and pulls him back to the table.

“I fuckin hope you’re not planning to go over and see her like this,” she says incredulously and Warren scoffs, rolling his eyes.

“It’s fine-I’m fine. I just gotta talk-”

“Your boots are on the wrong feet. You’re not fine. Just-just fucking slow down, okay? Spend the night working on your grand speech of love or whatever and then deliver it in the morning. Got it, casanova?” Betsy says, biting back a grin of amusement at Warren’s useless denials of his own sobriety.

“You can’t make me stay here,” Warren rolls his eyes in stubbornness already making his way to the door, only to be stopped by Betsy grabbing the back of his shirt to yank him back.

“Tomorrow. You’ll talk to her tomorrow. For now, get your shoes off and I’ll grab you some water and some aspirin, because you’re going to have a raging headache in the morning.” Betsy answers with authority, pushing Warren down on the couch.

He obeys, and watches as she grabs him the water and medicine. Warren’s already running through what he’s going to say to you, thinking of the seemingly endless variations of how the conversation could go. What if she wants me? _What if she wants to be with me? What if she doesn’t? What if, what if, what if…._

Betsy forces him down onto his bed and pushes the water into his hand, hanging around long enough to be sure he isn’t going to try and leave. The door swings shut behind her and Warren just stares blankly up at his ceiling, torn between trying to clear his mind so he can sleep and trying to think of what he’s going to say to you. He’s never been good with communicating his feelings verbally, and some over dramatic voice in the back of his mind says that this is the highest the stakes have ever been. He lies awake like that until exhaustion wins out over his own uncertainty, though his sleep is anything but restful.

* * *

When Warren wakes up the next morning, he’s hungover and exhausted, and he doesn’t have a particularly firm idea of how he should go about it, but it’s like his feelings for you are being shouted loudly and repeatedly in his mind and so even if he barely manages to stumble out of bed and get his shoes on the right feet, he knows he needs to tell you how he feels, because the weight of this secret that isn’t really a secret at all is weighing on his chest so heavily he thinks it might crush him if he doesn’t get it out. It’s some kind of miracle that he manages to get across campus to the art class you share with him, and when he sees you in the classroom, it feels like he’s been hit with a ton of bricks because he cares about you so goddamn much. Honestly, he must have been fucking blind or something to have missed it before. You look exhausted, though. So, so beautiful and so, so tired. There are dark circles under your eyes and you’re not wearing makeup and it stings that you won’t meet his gaze, but he knows he probably deserves it. Definitely deserves it. He can’t help but steal glances at you throughout the two-hour sketching block and he’s becoming increasingly on edge as the class nears the end. All the things he wants to tell you, all the things he knows he should have said that night months ago when you cried in his arms and he just left, they’re all still there, burning under the surface of his skin and he thinks absently that this is how it feels to catch fire. His work in class is messy and distracted and every smudged line on his paper seems to scream ‘you don’t deserve her’.

The class dismisses and you scoop up your things and hurry out of there as fast as you possibly can, without so much as a backwards glance at Warren. He follows after you resolutely though, driven by the endless chorus of ‘you care about her’ in his mind. He follows you through the art building, and you’re almost at the exit when he manages to catch you, reaching out to grab your wrist and pulling you into an empty classroom just to the side, closing the door behind him. The door clicks shut with an air of finality and you’re sure the expression on your face must be something between hysteria or panic, because you can’t deal with him right now, because he’s standing in front of you looking like he might punch you or kiss you, and you can’t quite figure out which and the walls feel like they’re starting to close in because you’re still desperately trying to run away from your feelings, but he’s making it impossible to ignore them.

Warren’s hands are shaky as he takes a deep breath and says “look, I just-I’m sorry about yanking you away like that I just really-I need to talk to you.” Your eyes are wide and your arms are clutched around yourself as if in protection. “I’m-fuck, I’m sorry. I am so, so sorry for all the bullshit I’ve put you through. None of it was fair or necessary and I’m just-I’m sorry.” He reflexively reaches up to run a hand through his already messy curls, nudging his glasses back up the bridge of his nose as a low-level thrill shoots through him, because this feels like the jumping point and if he keeps going, he knows there’s no turning back. “And you can tell me to fuck off or whatever, but I just-I need you to know-” his voice trails off and he clenches his hands briefly into fists to stop them shaking. A deep breath. A leap of faith. “I really fucking like you. Like, you’re all I think about. I care about you so goddamn much. I dunno, maybe it’s love, maybe I’m just fucking infatuated-I’ve never been good at emotions and knowing how I feel or-but you are always on my mind and I want you-I want to be with you. More than anything, basically.” He’s breathing hard when he finishes and it feels like he’s in freefall as he waits for your reaction.

Your heart is thundering in your chest so loudly and obviously that you’re surprised Warren can’t hear it. His last words reverberate through your entire body like an earthquake because it’s everything you’ve wanted to hear from him but you still feel like you’re falling apart and you have no goddamn clue what to tell him. The silence seems to stretch on for years as he watches you and you look helplessly back at him and the tension is building and building into something physically painful.

“I want you too.” You couldn’t have stopped the words from escaping even if you’d wanted to. Warren lets out a low, shaky breath and some of the visible tension slips from his shoulders as he takes a small, reflexive step towards, you, hesitating as if he’s not sure what you want-what you’re okay with. Your arms are still wrapped protectively around yourself as you continue “This-it scares the shit out of me, and I have no fucking clue what to do about it and it’s so-but I’m just-I am so sorry for the stupid shit I put on you and the things you put up with for me. I’m kind of-I’m still just so-fuck-” you break off abruptly, blinking back the tears you can feel pricking at the backs of your eyes. “Do you mean it? You said you-you care about me, is that-? I want to be with you but god, Warren. I know what you’re like. Maybe better than anyone. I want you but I don’t want you to hurt me.”

You’re still holding yourself apart from him and that stings maybe more than your words to. He knows you’re right. Warren has a long string of one night stands and drunken hook ups and failed relationships and honestly he wouldn’t blame you if you couldn’t overlook it. Suddenly the room shifts in his mind and it’s years previously and he’s not looking at you anymore, he’s looking at Alex. They’re standing apart and Alex is telling him he’s moving. That he wants to try and make it work. The memories are dizzying and utterly overwhelming and it’s making it even harder for Warren to think straight than it already was. It’s a completely different situation but it feels exactly the goddamn same because he completely fucked it up with Alex and he desperately wants to do things right with you but he doesn’t know how. He wants to reassure you, to make you understand that he hasn’t felt like this in fucking years, but it’s hard to get the words out.

“It’s-I-fuck, look I’ve made some terrible, shitty decisions with this kind of thing before, I-it was-but I haven’t felt anything quite like this before. It’s-it’s fucking terrifying-I can’t-you’re always on my mind. Always. And I know-it’s-I know I’ve hurt you and I’m so sorry. You deserve better-you deserve the goddamn world. I want-I want to be with you and make you happy and I want to be better for you. You deserve better and I want to be with you and I just-fuck, I’m just fucking terrible at this and I haven’t been this much of a mess in years, but even through all of the bullshit in my head, I want you. I want something real with you.” The last part comes out as a desperate plea, and the ensuing silence makes him feel like he’s balancing on knives because he can’t remember the last time he let himself be this vulnerable while sober. Probably while drunk as well. He isn’t sure right now, and he doesn’t quite care because all he can focus on is the way you’re staring at him, still not moving, still not saying anything. Just looking at him.

You take a steadying breath, because the intensity with which Warren is looking at you is entirely too much for you right now. An entire first year sculpture class could come barging into the classroom right now and neither of you would notice the other students. You’re both focused completely on each other. The tension in the room is rising quickly and it feels like the longer you remain silent, the harder it gets to breath. Flexing your fingers experimentally, you slowly unwind your arms from around yourself, taking a halting step towards him, tentatively closing the space between the two of you. The pounding of your heart is thrumming through your entire body and your gaze is fixed on his face as you inch closer to him. You’re scarcely an inch away, and you can hear the sharp intake of breath as you reach for his hand, hesitantly brushing your fingers against his. “If-if you mean what you said, then-” you break off, your voice shaking slightly. “Then I want-I want to try something real with you. I want-I want to be with you, Warren. Just-” your fingers slowly lace with his and his entire body seems to tense up, as if he can’t quite believe this is happening “-please just promise me that this is-that none of this is bullshit. I trust you, I just-I need to hear this. I need you to promise me.” Your voice is soft and pleading and Warren swallows hard, nodding almost imperceptibly.

“I promise. I’m not lying or bullshitting or-this is-this is everything. I’ve told you everything,” he says, barely louder than a whisper. You nod in return, studying his expression with an intensity that should feel unnatural to you, but somehow isn’t.

“I trust you,” you whisper back, and your actions feel like they’re not entirely your own as you lean in, closing the remaining distance between the two of you to kiss him softly.

And all at once, Warren can practically feel himself wholly and completely melt against you. His hands come to rest ever so carefully against your cheeks as you kiss him carefully, and he’s positive you’re the only thing tying him to the world right now. His fingertips against your cheeks feels like sparks igniting a firework in your belly; a feeling you’d been trying to coax out of James for months and months, denying the fact that only Warren could make you feel this way. The kiss is slow and fragile and vulnerable and utterly unlike any of the times you’ve kissed him before. There’s a delicate unspoken promise in the way he touches you, and even though all he’s really aware of is what a fucking relief it is to be able to touch you like this, he wants you to understand what this means to him; needs you to know how overwhelming what he feels for you is. You pull back after a moment, and Warren genuinely couldn’t say how long it’s been since you kissed him. Maybe a second, maybe years. It doesn’t matter. You’re looking at him with so much hope in your eyes it’s almost painful, even as he registers the flicker of anxiety in your expression. “I trust you,” you repeat, voice scarcely audible, but the words send shivers down his spine regardless.

His thumb skims delicately over your cheekbone and your head tilts slightly towards his touch. It feels like some part of you that had shut down, something in you that had been silenced is volubly, blatantly awake as you study his face. His features are so familiar to you, but the expression of almost awestruck reverence in his eyes damn near buckles your knees. This is new, but as his arm loops gently around your waist and he pulls you into his chest with a careful hesitation that has never been there before, it feels like this is exactly where you were always supposed to end up.

It feels like ages as you both stand there, utterly wrapped in one another. With your face pressed into his shirt, his cologne reminds you of all those sleepless nights after you slept together, when he’d lie back with a cigarette, telling you with a tired voice of all the things that he plans to do after college. And for once, that scent makes you feel at home.

Warren gently tilts your chin up to look at him, with that soft smile you’ve barely gotten to see previous to this afternoon’s events.

“I want to take you out,” He says with an almost tentative tone. “Like on a date. A real date, with dinner and everything.”

You can’t help but to let out a watery laugh at that, and he joins you with a soft chuckle of his own as his shirtsleeves move to wipe the excess tears off your cheeks. His hands are warm and the cuff of his sweater is soft and it amazes you that this is even happening.

“You know what?” You say, finally able to form a coherent sentence as you smile weakly up at him. “I think I’d almost prefer to just go back to your place and order in, and take a nap with you.”

He can’t hide the grin that spreads over his face as you suggest that, and he wonders how he managed to push away any semblance of genuine feelings he had for you for so long. Warren smiles in delight and leans down to kiss your forehead, revelling in the soft little sigh you let out, and says, “whatever you want, sweetheart, we can do.”

And as you’re walking out of the building hand in hand, somehow, this is where Warren feels like he’s always meant to be. He tugs you in and loops his arm around your shoulders, pressing a kiss to your temple, enjoying the way you lean into his side. Maybe, he thinks, this all was fate or destiny or whatever bullshit like that says- but for now, he’s not going to think about it too hard; because all that matters now is the fact that he’s getting the chance to love you, to care for you, and to make up for the mistakes he made in the past. All he wants to think about is how you’re warm against his side and how you’re not pulling away from him, and though he thinks maybe this is more than he deserves, he’s never letting go of it.


End file.
